


heaving heart is full of pain

by teacass (Fushigi)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Coda, Dean's levels of angst, Episode Related, Episode: s12e09 First Blood, M/M, Mentions of Death, Pre-Relationship, also: I am always emotional about mugs, this gets a bit gloomy just sayin'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-27
Updated: 2017-01-27
Packaged: 2018-09-20 07:37:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9481316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fushigi/pseuds/teacass
Summary: Cas’ hand is warm in Dean’s, and his thumb is pressing soft circles into Dean’s skin.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written in months, guys, but the new episode gave me feels  
> title from Des'ree's song, "I'm Kissing You"  
> thanks to Lauren for beta-reading!

Dean’s heart is aching.

_At least it’s still beating_ , he thinks, but it seems strange to be thinking that so soon after he was ready to die. The decision — the _resolution_ — to die was easy to make, but it doesn’t really surprise him anymore. Some time ago — he’s not sure when, exactly — dying for the world, or for his family (the words have always meant the same to him in his mind, it seems) became the easiest thing imaginable. 

It’s the death of those he cares about that’s hard.

Dean lifts his eyes, slowly, and gazes at the dirty blond hair of his mother. She’s driving because she seems to be the only one capable of doing so right now, hands steady on the wheel even though not a few hours back they shook when she held the gun to her head. 

The memory makes Dean’s heart clench painfully and he closes his eyes, feeling nauseous. 

He’d be lying if he said the thought hadn’t occurred to him when Billie first appeared in his cell and presented the rules of the deal. He had thought briefly of that short moment back in Canada when Mary seemed to have hesitated responding to Billie. He had been scared shitless when she had opened her mouth because for a second he had thought— But she’d said no, and she’d smiled, and she’d joined them for breakfast and Dean couldn’t have been more relieved.

So yeah, the thought of his mom saying yes to Billie had occurred to him back in that cell, and he immediately hated himself for it, because what kind of a person even _thinks_ about letting his own mother die so that he could walk free? But Billie had said ‘a Winchester,’ probably trying to give Sam a chance — a chance to die, what the ever-loving fuck has his world become — and he sure as hell wasn’t going to let anyone die for him ever again.

Billie has helped them before, sure, but right now? After he saw her smile proudly while his mom was ready to pull the trigger and _shoot herself_? His hands tremble at the mere thought of Billie and he kind of feels ready to resurrect her just for a chance to _kill her_ , yet again, with his own hands this time.

The thought makes his head throb dully, and he lets it roll sideways and rest against the window. Maybe he’d be better off back in that cell, without this headache and this heartache and this cold, suffocating atmosphere inside the car.

Sam’s dozing off in the passenger seat; the car is quiet except for the rumble of the engine and his brother’s soft snores. Mary was sniffling quietly some time ago, but Dean felt too raw to even try to think of anything to say to her.

Dean’s eyes slide over to Cas, slumped in the seat beside him. He’s taken off his coat and is now using it as a temporary blanket, nose buried under the collar and eyes squeezed shut. He looks like he’s sleeping, but Dean knows he’s not.

Cas’ hand is warm in Dean’s, and his thumb is pressing soft circles into Dean’s skin.

Dean’s so tired. He wants nothing but to lean sideways and press himself again Cas, bury his face in Cas’ neck, his hair, the warmth of his body — but they’re not there yet, especially not after the last weeks they’ve all had, after not seeing each other for over a month… especially not after tonight. Cas’ voice still reverberates in Dean’s ears, even hours after he’d stabbed Billie and shouted about not letting any of them die, ever again, with eyes full of unshed tears and mouth downturned.

Dean squeezes Cas’ hand, hesitantly, and his heart pounds against his ribcage when Cas shifts his fingers and squeezes back, strong as ever.

Dean can’t curl himself against Cas the way he wants to, not yet, but they’re getting there. Cas may be angry, he may be upset with Dean and everyone else in the car, but he’s _not giving up on them_.

***

It’s dawn when they get to Lebanon and the car stops. They all tumble out of it, bodies tired and sleepy, and none of them say a word when they enter the bunker and stomp slowly down the stairs into the war room.

The first thing Dean notices is a stack of dirty cups stained with old coffee on the map table, a plaid blanket thrown haphazardly over one of the chairs, a book discarded in the middle of being read, kept open by another heavy tome. Dean glances at Cas — their hands aren’t touching anymore and Dean’s heart feels colder again. Cas meets his eye, looks tiredly at the mess in the room, and mumbles something about cleaning it up right away.

Sam yawns hugely, nods at Dean, and hugs Mary’s shoulders, steering her out into the corridor and towards her bedroom. She manages to sneak a look towards Dean — it’s a bit broken and apologetic, but Dean’s too exhausted to feel upset or sad anymore. He smiles at her, just a small tired thing, and lets them go without another word.

A loud sound brings him back to the room, and he looks over at Cas who’s currently trying to fit four mugs and an empty plate into his hands.

“Cas,” he says and moves before he can think better of it. Cas ignores him and takes a small steps towards the kitchen — only to lose one of the cups and let it fall out of his grip. 

Dean’s there to catch it before it crashes against the hard floor.

“Dammit, Cas, just leave it,” Dean murmurs and puts the mug back on the map table.

“I’ve let the bunker get dirty while you were gone,” Cas says back and there’s a quiver in his voice again. “I should have cleaned more often.”

Dean thinks about Cas staying in the bunker alone — or with Mary, maybe, _probably_ — even though there was a chance he and Sam weren't coming back, and something clutches at his heart again. 

“I don’t care,” he says.

“I’m sorry,” Cas says.

“It’s okay,” Dean says and, because Cas isn’t even looking at him, just holding all those dirty dishes and staring at the floor, he grabs one of the mugs and puts it back down on the table.

“I can clean it, I’m not tired,” Cas mutters.

Dean puts away another mug, this one belonging to Sam, with a cartoon moose drawn on its front, a gift from Claire and Jody. 

“Dean,” Cas pleads.

Dean stares at his own mug — it’s plain, white with a simple black outline — looks at the dry coffee on its rim, at the streak of the old liquid, and thinks of Cas drinking from it, letting his hands warm against the ceramic. Dean has never seen him use it before, not when he was at the bunker, but he finds he doesn’t mind at all. He’d probably drink from Cas’ mugs too, if the situation was reversed.

And if Cas had any personal mugs at the bunker.

“Yeah. You are,” Dean answers, and he can see Cas frown because he’s answered too late and Cas isn’t the same old Cas that would remember everything that has been said hours and months and eons ago, or in this case, mere minutes ago. So he explains, “You’re tired.”

“I don’t need sleep,” Cas says.

“I don’t care,” Dean repeats and finally puts the last dirty mug on the table. Cas’ arms are finally free and Dean shuffles closer, letting his fingers brush against Cas’ hand. 

“You should rest,” Cas murmurs, finally looking up at him. Dean finds now it’s his turn to look away. He stares at his own hands, at the way his palm slowly closes over Cas’ wrist, loose enough to give him a way out. 

He wants to ask about the last six weeks. He needs to know how Cas felt — what he did, how he spent all that Winchester-free time. He wants to ask about those British guys. What did Cas have to do to get help from them? He wants to talk with him about Mom, and about Sam, and Billie.

But he hasn’t slept properly in six weeks and his heart is too raw to speak.

“I’m going to bed,” he murmurs and lifts his eyes, slowly, to meet Cas’. “And you… please, don’t go anywhere.”

Cas’ eyes are so sad, but he smiles anyway.

“I’m not,” he whispers and gathers Dean in his arms, hands strong and heavy on Dean’s back and his neck pushed against Dean’s nose. Dean makes a small sound deep in his throat and squeezes his eyes shut, melts against the hard lines of Cas’ body, grabs the lapels of Cas’ coat and pulls him closer still.

He must stink and he’s dirty, but if Cas minds, he doesn’t say a thing. They stay like that for a moment, saying nothing, and Dean wants to ask Cas to never let go, or to go with him to his bedroom so that he can make sure Cas doesn’t leave. But forming words, especially those words, is suddenly too difficult, his throat dry and his entire body exhausted. 

He lets go, unwillingly, and looks Cas in the eye. Cas is still smiling.

“Sleep well, Dean,” he murmurs, and Dean’s not sure if he’s dreaming already, but Cas lifts his hand and brushes his fingers down Dean’s cheek in a soft caress.

When Dean gets to his bedroom, he’s still a little dizzy. He sinks into his own bed with a relieved sigh escaping his lips at the first touch of his mattress, Cas’ smell still in his mind and his heart just a tiny bit less sore. 


End file.
